Stories are made up by people who make them up. If they work, they get retold. There's the magic of it.

She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars.

Mostly you are what they think you are.

As sure as water's wet and days are long and a friend will always disappoint you in the end.

Shadow had heard too many people telling each other not to repress their feelings, to let their emotions out, let the pain go. Shadow thought there was a lot to be said for bottling up emotions. If you did it long enough and deep enough, he suspected, pretty soon you wouldn't feel anything at all.

Let her tell stories and dance in the rain, somersault, tumble and run, her joys must be high as her sorrows are deep, let her grow like a weed in the sun.

Now you people have names. That's because you don't know who you are. We know who we are, so we don't need names.